


Hello, Nemo Nightmare

by Pyrosane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrosane/pseuds/Pyrosane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has this problem, you see...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Nemo Nightmare

There’s a snap, a crackle, and a pop, and Harry finds himself clutching a refined piece of wood for dear life, before waking up with his face pressed to the bottom of a bowl, eyes stinging with the blinding whiteness that is milk and the exploding remnants of the last handful of cereal he’s got left.

He quickly pulls himself out, claiming his humanity and preventing himself from drowning in his own breakfast. A small figment of chagrin and bashfulness makes itself at home at the center of Harry’s chest, where his ribs threaten to collide with a heart that beats too quickly.

“The weather is sure going to get hot today, Jim.”

“It sure is, Susan. Nearly a hundred degrees fahrenheit, can you imagine that?”

“Well, there you have it, folks. This has been TES News, broadcasting live from-” Harry fumbles around, searching with numb fingers for the remote. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally encloses his hand about a solid hunk of plastic, and presses the red button without hesitation.

The television goes quiet, and Harry is left to himself, where he sits, wiping his face off on a worn towel. He resolves to take a shower in fifteen minutes.

That’s what his life is.

He fixes his glasses, which are round and awkward and sit on top of Harry’s nose much like the way a king sits on his throne.

He looks out the window, which rests above the sink in Harry’s small kitchen, looking placid and peaceful, inviting spoonfuls of the sun to come streaming in, a spotlight for the little clumps of dust that dance about but scatter before getting too close to Harry’s unruly hair.

He glances at the clock, which reads six p.m., and realizes that he’s had cereal for dinner for four days in a row, but doesn’t feel any particular resentment at the thought.  
The house is silent, except for the ticking of a clock that boasts a ferocious lion at the center, which roars when the black hands hit midnight and Harry feels loneliest. Next door, Mr. Abdul begins mowing his lawn, the monstrous cry of the mower relentlessly drowning out the barking of the dogs.

There are no photos in Harry’s home, save for one or two. They are of people he does not know the names of, but they are his best friends. Over the past several months of his life, the bit he can remember, he has put together entire stories for them, constructed cities and lives, from the moment the sun invades the night, and the light is condensed into the pale moon.

Sometimes, he’ll talk to them, and wait with bated breath for an answer.

They never do respond.

Harry gets up, wrapping his hands around the purple ceramic that holds his flimsy dinner, and ambles over to the sink. He thinks about washing the dishes, but gives into the temptation of the dishwasher once again.

After promising himself that he’ll wash the dishes by hand tomorrow, he turns to head upstairs, where it’s much cooler and he can’t hear the incessant mowing of Mr. Abdul. Harry heads straight for the bathroom.

He likes it there.

There are no windows, and with the lights off, he doesn’t have to stare at himself in the mirror like a bloody clue that refuses to yield any answers.

He doesn’t have to look at that heinous zig-zagging bit of flesh that holds together his forehead like a crudely mended patch of fabric.

Harry turns on the shower, and sits on the edge of the tub, suddenly feeling weak and unmotivated, tired and barren and angry. He talks to himself, because there are no photographs to listen to him in this room.

“How are you, Harry?”

“Fine, Harry.”

“Going to be a hot day today, isn’t it, Harry?”

“Sure is, Harry.”

“Say, what do you say to going to a movie later tonight, Harry?” Harry pauses. This is new. He has never been asked to go out before, even if he is asking himself.  
After a moment of delay, he replies.

“Why not, Harry? It’ll be fun.” Harry doesn’t have time to continue the conversation after that, because the water has turned warm, and he is all too eager to clean himself before going out.

Like normal people.

“Like normal people.”

Harry is normal. He is normal, living a normal life in a normal suburban town in a normal country in a normal world.

Harry is normal.

He repeats this like a mantra through the tears, which blend in all too easily with the shower that now feels like a waterfall, cascading around his frame and making him feel like the only person left alive on the planet.

When that doesn’t work, Harry screams loudly enough to suffocate the sounds of Mr. Abdul’s lawnmower, which have begun to seep into the bathroom as well.

~

Hogwarts is no longer the safe haven for the young and the innocent. The walls no longer hold in the laughter of students returning from Honeydukes, but burst with the whispers of victims, teeming with the kind of mad excitement prisoners show before being executed.

Ron and Hermione don’t talk to each other.

They haven’t, not since Harry lost his mind, and their friendship went from being just that, to a fight for survival within a castle that boasts a tyrant and an army of captives.

~

When Harry exits the house, he makes it all the way from the front door, to the porch, to the driveway, and finally, to the badly trimmed hedges that litter his lawn, before he runs back to the safety of his home. Inside, he lays down on a frayed couch that is made of quilts, and is cozy and warm and smells so familiar, yet so strange. Just before Harry falls asleep, he thinks that he sees a flash of red hair, but only for a split second, like he’s looking at a snapshot of someone else’s life through a polaroid camera.

Like all other things that plague him, he cuts the momento down into little square boxes that he stores within the recesses of his mind, along with a delicate length of wood, a set of scarlet robes, and a broomstick that lies polished on an impossibly green field.

Harry sighs an apology. He doesn’t try to resist the soft lull of sleep that draws him in like a siren, full of promises that only prove to be gateways into a world of nightmares.


End file.
